


An Afterword

by sevenlostkeys



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Episode: 2015 Xmas The Husbands of River Song, Episode: s04e08-9 Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead, Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Melody Malone - Freeform, Melody Pond - Freeform, Ponds for Life, Post-Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Spoilers for Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28060011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenlostkeys/pseuds/sevenlostkeys
Summary: River has to ask Amy to write an afterword to her book -- but will Amy and Rory want to see her again?
Relationships: Amy Pond/Rory Williams, The Doctor/River Song, The Eleventh Doctor/River Song
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	An Afterword

It took River Song a couple of tries to nail down her parents’ location after the events in Manhattan. If it hadn’t been for her promising the Doctor an afterword, she might have waited for years. Then again, it might be years by the time she tracked them down. 

Their relationship was, like most of the things in her life, complicated. At best, she wished them happiness from afar and didn’t want to dredge up hard feelings or frustrate them with questions she couldn’t answer. That was the problem with time travel in general -- knowing too much or too little, and never being able to reconcile the two. 

Compartmentalizing her emotions came with the job, but she was feeling rough around the edges today. She remembered how warm Amy’s hand had been in hers, her mother’s words ringing in her ears. “ _You be a good girl, and you look after him._ ” Easier said than done. 

For this mission, she pulled her two-piece blue tailored suit out of the closet. It had gone down a treat in the 1960s, she’d just need to swap out her shoes and set her hair in soft waves, since she was headed to the early 1940s. She also decided on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, in case she overshot and ended up at Amy’s workplace. She normally loved making a scene, but this was a somber visit of sorts, and she pulled out the glitter and guns for the Doctor’s benefit. 

She took a deep breath and double-checked the coordinates before stowing her diary and battered copy of her Melody Malone book in her tan trench coat pockets. _It’ll be fine, you’ll get to see them again, it’s not over for you yet._ Those words were her secret manta because she had no idea how it would all turn out, so might as well hope for the best and sort through the rest later over a good dram of whiskey.

She fluffed her hair one last time and hit the buttons on her vortex manipulator. It spit her out a snowy alleyway. She smoothed her clothes and turned a corner and found herself in Brooklyn. The street was full of brownstones. _Mum and dad are moving on up_ , she thought to herself, smiling. She scanned the street for any external features that would point her towards the right one. She hadn’t planned on knocking on doors all day, especially if it was spitting snow. She was thankful her trench coat had a thick wool lining as well, although it didn’t appear the snow would stick. 

She headed down the sidewalk, hands in her coat pockets, looking in at families in the glow of the day to day, their windows dioramas of the one world she could never fully inhabit. Then her eyes focused on something, an outlier. It was a wreath of dried sunflowers, with a winding red ribbon hanging on a blue door. The house number was 11. _Must be_ , she thought. She hurried up the cement stairs and rang the doorbell. 

She looked upward for a moment, exhaling. She could hear movement in the flat and then finally, the turning of the doorknob. It was Rory. _Bingo._ Her heart was pounding. 

“Dad,” she breathed, trying to steady herself. He looked older, partly from life and the fine cut clothing. 

His mouth dropped open, wordless. 

“Who is it?” Amy called from the parlor. 

“Come see for yourself,” he shouted back, voice shaking. 

River could hear Amy rushing towards the door, and there she was, in a knee-length black dress, hair now chin-length and curled. Her eyes misted over almost immediately. 

“May I come in?” River asked quietly. 

Amy nodded yes, biting her lip. Rory gestured her into the foyer, offering to take her coat. 

She followed Amy into the parlor where a small fire was flickering. There was a desk with a typewriter and manuscripts, as well as a couple of armchairs. Amy paced in front of the fireplace, obviously shaken. 

“How long has it been?” River asked, hesitant.

“A few years,” Amy choked out, facing the fireplace, her back to Rory and River. 

Rory approached Amy, trying to comfort her by squeezing her shoulders but Amy shook him off so he settled in one of the armchairs, running his hands through his hair. 

“I’m -- I’m sorry.” 

“Did he send you?” 

“In a roundabout way.” 

“Isn’t that always the way?” 

“He was beside himself, it was --” 

“Hard for him?” 

“Yes.” River looked at the floor, heels sinking into the plush carpet. “He wouldn’t listen to me, so I figured he’d listen to you.” 

“How?” 

“The book. I thought you could write a short afterword, just to let him know not to worry…” River’s voice trailed off, trying to read the room and deflect her parents’ shared pain. “And if you never want to see me again after this, that’s absolutely fair. I can leave the draft in the foyer and be on my way...I never meant to intrude…”

Amy’s shoulders were shaking. River stood still, clasping her hands in front of her, trying to give her mother space to process everything. In many ways, the Doctor was a wound that never heals, a sonic cut right between the ribs. Amy and Rory’s was still fresh. 

“Melody,” Amy held her left hand out from behind, the same way she did the graveyard.

River moved towards her cautiously, finally touching hands. 

Amy spun around then, throwing her arms around her, burying her head into River’s shoulder, softly crying. 

“I didn’t know if we’d ever see you ever again,” Amy whispered. “But you gave me the greatest gift.” 

“What was that?” River asked, confused. 

“You did what he couldn’t do -- you told me the truth, so I could be with Rory. You let me go. You were always so brave, when we should have been the ones protecting you, it was you that protected us.” 

River could feel her resolve slipping, the tears finally spilling over after years of holding them in. She began to shake in her mother’s embrace. 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Rory murmured, giving them a moment. 

Amy held River’s head in her hands. “You are always welcome here. Do you understand me? Always.” 

River felt like a child for the first time in the longest time. Amy’s hands dropped from River’s face and guided her over to one of the armchairs, and fetched a handkerchief from her desk drawer. 

“Would you like something stronger to go with your tea?” Amy asked, opening a small cabinet behind her desk. 

“Whiskey?” 

“Will bourbon do?”

“Please.” 

Amy gave them each a generous pour, and crossed the room, handing River a small tumbler, then she settled back at her desk, already threading a piece of paper into her typewriter. They sipped their drinks in silence. 

Rory returned with mugs of tea and offered sugar and milk. 

“Bit early for the bourbon, dear,” he fussed. 

“We’re celebrating,” Amy teased. “Early book release and all that.” 

River accepted the mug of tea, letting her whiskey rest on a small side table near her. 

“So you’ve both settled in well here?” 

“As well as can be expected,” Rory said. “Living out history is...different, but we mostly keep to ourselves with work. Amy’s thrown herself into writing and I’m working shifts at different hospitals in the city. We have a small garden, and it cuts down on the shopping. You should visit in summer when you can see it in full bloom.” 

“Rory has a green thumb,” Amy said, her voice warm. “And making up fantastical stories is easy when you’ve traveled with the Doctor. I just file a few of the serial numbers off and add my own details. People need escapism, no matter what year it is.” 

“How are things with you...wherever you are these days?” Rory asked. 

“Currently on my own,” River said. “Freelance agent of sorts. Quick and dirty work, but someone has to do it.”

Sensing the metaphorical elephant in the room, she went ahead and offered what she knew they were thinking.

“I haven’t seen the Doctor since Manhattan,” she said. “My diary pages are running out, so I figure I don’t have that many days with him left. Everything ends eventually.” She shrugged, trying to shake off her feelings. 

Amy had been staring at her typewriter, listening, but she also seemed lost in thought. 

“What should I tell him? What would help?” 

“Need to know is always best,” River advised. “Mixing in memories helps as well. It keeps him from focusing on the what-ifs.” 

Amy nodded.

“The what-ifs are what keep him up at night.”

“We’ve made our peace with it...it was hard at first,” Amy said. “But we wouldn’t want to be anywhere else now. And as much as we love him...it would be just as hard to slip back into that sort of life.” 

“It never gets easier...you just get better at coping with it.” 

“I believe I have the first line,” Amy said, fingers tapping against the keys. “Rory, mind to show River around the flat?” 

“Certainly. And she’s staying for dinner.”

“Maybe we should go out. Perhaps Chinatown?” 

“Sounds exciting!” 

Rory gestured to River to head upstairs with him. 

“We keep the Van Gogh in the reading loft,” he added. 

Amy began writing then. In a life bookmarked with hellos and goodbyes, she could give him this, these last words of thanks to the raggedy man who’d landed in her garden another lifetime ago. She’d still be waiting for him…

“ _Hello, old friend…_ ” she murmured.

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatched bits of TAtM and felt some sort of way.


End file.
